


When the Sun Rises, Shadows will Fade

by Ciel422, Resistance



Category: Alexander (2004), Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciel422/pseuds/Ciel422, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resistance/pseuds/Resistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collaborative work with alternating chapters between Alexander and Hephaestion's point of view. This is a scene starting off with Alexander just returning from his father's imposed exile in Illyria, and preparing to be a part of the showy ceremony honoring Philip II the following morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alexandros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexandros POV written by Ciel422.

He stood silhouetted between the flung open great doors. Arms braced him upon the railing of the balcony which overlooked the expansive city of Pella where he’d been born and raised; where one day he would look out as king. Yet there was a bitterness to it this time that had not been there before. Certainly, it was common knowledge that he and his father clashed –the son a threat to outdo the magnificence of his predecessor, and the younger man striving to prove himself so worthy. But where it had only burdened Alexandros before, it seemed now to have broken something within him instead.

Only hours ago he had returned, cloaking his arrival by coming through a back gate he’d used as a boy and returning first to the chambers he had always called ‘home’. Of course Hephaestion had been with him, but things had been chaotic and taxing while they stayed in Illyria, and his focus had waned on most things aside from the wound of his pride and the ongoing conversations with Demaratus. He had abstained from the pleasures sought by those of his youthful seventeen years, but that was not atypical of him. Alexandros felt the slipping of his control and sway with those within the Macedonian kingdom –those he would one day preside over- and had always sought to reclaim that and prove that he was simply, above human need. Yet, he had almost forgotten how severely his soul equally needed the acclaim and affection of another to drive away the infringing sense of chaos that could so quickly rip that control he fought for so powerfully right from his grasp.

Alexandros stood utterly motionless against the darkened sky. He had refused to see anyone who knocked and asked entrance, and remained tucked away with the planned intention of making a more grand reappearance at the celebration come dawn. His father, honoring himself among the Gods with a statue erected to stand alongside those they paid homage to only made the darkness more suffocating, and the recollection that his closest companions still remained cast outside the city walls lingered just the same. Slowly, like the soft beat of a bird’s wings, Alexandros’ fingers thrummed a beat upon the wooden rail that supported his weight. He appeared mindlessly lost in thought, though the undeniable ferocity of the deep green eyes and the subtle crease between his brows easily denoted that he was only truly lost within the depths of his own mind.

Over and over the scenario had played out until he could no longer pull himself from its repetition. _’Get out; you bastard…’_ Over and over Alexandros felt the weight of it, though knew, somewhere, that come morning he would have to set such thoughts aside and appear the golden Prince joyfully brought back into the fold of his father’s cold embrace. But that was not tonight.

The food silently brought to him remained untouched, though the young Prince held unceremoniously onto the stem of a thick wine goblet as it rest atop the balcony. The wine itself was welcome, warming, though he refused any amount which would impair the whir of his mind as they sped through the coming day’s affairs. Even the renowned courtesan, Callixena, his father had appeared to keep within the palace in-wait for his return all these months was sent away with a cool dismissal, though by now she should have expected no less. Alexandros wanted the quiet that allowed his mind its freedoms, and the comfort of the books and maps he had left behind for far too long now.

And he wanted…

There was no knock this time, and he knew instinctively who was carried with the footfalls now behind him. In that alone there was a subconscious release of breath into the thicker air, and for that one moment, Alexandros was utterly stilled. It was like a silent communication passed, though he did not so much as turn to face the other man, or formally offer his companion a drink like he held –spinning and twisting again idly- between his fingers. The other had such leniencies with the Prince that formalities were far beneath the thoughts that controlled their minds. **_”Phae…”_** His nickname. The name only Alexandros called him, and one he used only in the quiet privacy they shared. He guarded that name like a treasure; was possessive of it as he was the affections and closeness of the man himself. And he kept it equally as concealed from all others in the very same manner.

Still he did not turn, but the subtle shift of his weight onto the other foot insinuated that his unwavering focus had broken even slightly, and he thought upon other things now. He thought of why the other would not be in his bed at such an hour, and despite himself the brazen replay of each secreted night before his exile flew into the forefront of his mind. It made the Prince shift quietly again as if uncomfortable – and perhaps he was. Alexandros was no man that gave into the lewd desires his father did, and with the outright resentment and scorn he felt against the man standing here overlooking the city, he wanted even less to resemble him in any form. Instead, he spoke into the night sky before him, though his words carried quietly to the other he knew to be nearest. **_”Each building stands the same. Each room within these very walls, even the smell of night itself, all untouched by my absence.”_** So matter-of-factly he spoke the words, and yet they were an admission no other would ever have been granted. Quickly then, Alexandros turned only his head toward the other man, focusing immediately upon him with eyes that had melted from their steadfast intensity to something far younger and belying the confidence in his words alone. **_”His plan to go East, to unite Greece and reach further, will leave me with nothing to make a name on. It cannot forever be that I am a shadow…”_**


	2. Hephaestion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hephaestion POV written by damnit_baby_damnit.

The concept of ‘home’ had been a simple one in Hephaestion’s mind since the age of fourteen. He left the house of his father at that age and never looked back, never again called that place his ‘home’, for truly it had never felt as such even as he grew up there. From that moment on, he would never again call any location home. To him, ‘home’ was simply any place he was able to see Alexandros. It had nothing to do with the palace they lived in or the tent in times of campaign, but any place, any physical location where Alexandros was in his sights. Because of that, this exile of Alexandros’ was nothing to him, in the sense that he was not leaving home, he was simply following his home as it moved. As he had always done.

That he would go with him was not so much as discussed, it would have been easier for Alexandros to have convinced his own left foot to stay behind than Hephaestion. And again when he returned to the home of his father, Hephaestion was beside him. Even when the King ordered all of his other friends to leave, he did not suggest that Alexandros’ left foot leave as well and all for the better because though he knew his own importance, he would never want Alexandros to be forced into a choice between him and his father. The King had spoken to him, asked if he would talk some sense into his son, since Hephaestion was such a reasonable young man, adding he would be rewarded for such a service. He had nodded, with respect for his station if not his person, and had spoken not a word of it, certainly not a word in the King’s favor. The choices Alexandros made, that he would advise him on, would be made because they were the best for him, nothing more.

Without being overly fond of it, Hephaestion understood there were nights when he would be pushed away, would be relegated to his own room, like a wife to her gynaeceum. It didn’t bother him in the sense that he would anger over it, but it uneased him because it was then, surrounded by quarters most would envy, that he was not home. Some nights, when he knew he had no real choice in the matter, that adjoining door would remain tightly shut. But most nights, if it was even simply to watch him a moment, he would spend little if any time in his own room. This first night back would be one of those nights. Though Alexandros had requested to be alone, Hephaestion knew by his tone that the door was not barred. 

That his presence could not startle Alexandros gave him great comfort. Even as lost in thought as his prince was, he could tell by the subtle shifts in his body, the sound of his sigh, that he knew he was in the room the moment he crossed the threshold. He found himself smiling at that, but as he moved closer to the balcony doors, he pushed the smile away for a more safely neutral expression. “Oh no, that isn’t true at all.” He stopped just behind him, his hands still at his sides, “The very air is different now. Each face is different. All has changed, some in the smallest ways, but nothing is the same as it was before. It is well known that Apollo Delphios has had written that you must honor your parents, but I have read he also spoke that you must honor your sons. That this was forgotten changed the very air, Andros. Nothing will be the same.”

He stepped closer without invitation. In truth he had never been offered an invitation before and he did not need it. He reached up to tame a stray curl of Alexandros’ with gentle fingers, not letting his hand linger too long, though he wanted to. He noticed the cup in his hands, but knew it was nothing more than a prop, something to hold so his hands would be occupied. He didn’t need such a thing himself, so he didn’t pour himself anything. It wasn’t an evening for drink anyhow, he hoped. Even if this was a conversation they had a thousand upon a thousand times over. He knew that no matter what he said, Alexandros’ fears would not be assuaged until the events happened and his name was written beside the great deeds Hephaestion knew without question he would accomplish.

He rested his hands on the railing of the balcony, but never took his eyes off Alexandros. “There are and always will be lands for you to put your name upon when the time is right. If he goes east, we will simply push further, to lands we have not yet heard of. Or in another direction if that is sound. There is no concern that Gaia will run out of land for you to claim, do not fear that. Acting without forethought in a rush to claim your slice would not be prudent.” Hephaestion had given that speech, perhaps word-for-word so many times, he was actually surprised Alexandros let him finish the whole thing before speaking. And yet at the same time, he knew that Alexandros needed to hear the words over and over to remind himself that they were still true. Hephaestion knew his role and he never hesitated. 

Though he did find himself wishing he had poured himself a cup of wine first.


	3. Alexandros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexandros POV written by Ciel422.

His father had stripped him of many things, exiling him as he had. But the blatant removal of his companions – his support system – and his pride was by far the greatest wound. Once, they had been an unstoppable force upon the field of battle; Alexandros knew now that not ever would things be the same as they had been. There had been no reconciliatory apology or even a comment upon the severe insult made toward him and his mother, and the lingering sting of that alone – being deemed a bastard; no Macedonian heir – was striking enough within his mind. After all, a Prince with the expectations he placed upon himself and the utter righteousness he aimed always to carry himself with, would never be so limp as to roll over and accept such mockery.

His companions had never questioned his decisions either. Most had left the celebration all those months ago close on his heels, asking perhaps where he would go or what he would do now, but none had so much as bothered to try and alter the path he’d chosen. Alexandros would have been shocked and taken aback by the mere thought if they had; his decision was so concretely set by the open wound cut upon his ego that there was literally no other course of action but to leave. He’d have done so – and had already begun his departure – by the time his father had banished him by name. He remembered the silence then, as he’d stopped and turned to face the man, standing atop a table, thinking himself so high above the rest, demanding with the point of his sword for an apology to his kinsman.

No such words had even considered being born within his throat, and as he’d offered Philip his back in response, the next words were not his – he may have chosen in silence to remove himself from the kingdom, but his father had spoken them as clearly as he’d allowed his golden son to be termed the worst of insults. While his heart was bruised, his anger roiling hot, and pride bloody though, Alexandros would never bend his knee to such a man again. Nor had he allowed himself to show such emotional scars amidst those who spat upon his name and stood silently, waiting for his submission to his father, the King.

And now, many months later, Alexandros refused all the same. While back within the palace walls, the undeniably tense and surface relationship between himself and his father had recently become even more strained. He had not bowed nor bent, offered no apology in equal measure to Philip offering none of his own, and instead stood on a foundation of pride he’d seemed only to build on while away in Illyria. Even his companions were privy to the bold statements of grandeur; how he would surpass his ‘great’ father and show them all the soldier they had grown to love from his years leading the men, even so young. But there had been rare moments of weakness he resented vehemently within himself, where wine had flowed too freely or a letter received that he carelessly happened to read before the prying eyes and ears of all around him. His temper, hot and wild, alternated with the near-desolate feelings of self-deprecation, and Alexandros had found his flaw of flaws – the utter need for friendship, affection…love.

Within mere hours, his father had stripped him of his most valued sense of self and worth. Alexandros had shown the mighty flare of his temper as he was prone toward, but the worst was the nagging doubt that he had instigated this by making a fatal error. He had allowed rumor to creep into the forefront of his mind, playing easily off the doubts already lingering there, and had sought the aid of a renowned actor to barter in his name. Had he not heard news that his bastard half-brother, Arrhidaeus, was bound to be wed to a woman of Caria, setting him up to be in more lucrative position for the throne, Alexandros perhaps could have regained himself; once more, forgiven his father. No longer was either an option, and the complete exile of each companion that had remained ever close by his side bit into him like an incessant plague. Further, the capture and containment of the actor he’d hired added only guilt to the weight of his shoulders. He was no man to ask of others what he had not suffered himself, and Philip had taken his ability to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in times of trial with his honored men from beneath his feet.

Alexandros was certain he knew exactly how crippling the damage done was.

Yet now there was the expectation that he accompany his father to the ceremony come dawn, a perfect symbol of son and heir, as if nothing had been ruffled between them. It grated upon every nerve and fiber of his being; he rebelled and fought against it, though he knew well that in order to maintain the thread of peace left between them and set himself upon a throne he coveted – if only to better Macedon, Greece, and out East – he must comply with at least that much.

But not tonight. Tonight was his.

While he had refused the company of others, turned them away at his door, Hephaestion was far from unexpected, nor was he to be brushed aside. There was more liberty there than all others – a thing that set his mother toward jealousy as great as Aphrodite’s, and he was certain more than a few of his companions silently resented the other for his status in Alexandros’ favor as well. He cared, only to the extent that Hephaestion was safe; he cared that his mother did not exert her envy out toward his closest companion, or that the other men did not outwardly harass the other for their own ill-contempt. Both things were far from his whirring mind now though, as he let loose the bite of his utter aggravation with the situation that pressed closer now. The words left in a flood, as they always did when he was pressed in a similar direction – his worry over surpassing his father, the land to be conquered, the mark to be made. But tonight there was anger and betrayal and guilt and remorse all tied behind each word that fell from his pursed lips, knowing that even while this always sat like a thorn in the bottom of his foot, he also suffered the loss of his companions, and the silent angst of having his actor captured for a mission he’d set him on.

Hephaestion was perfect in his balance of the golden prince. Where Alexandros doubted and yet had an unshakeable ago; where he held himself to impossible standards, his companion was reasonable, fair, and never hesitated with the words that needed to be spoken. He knew precisely what was needed, as if he could feel every one of them within Alexandros’ mind and recite them, without even his own forethought of what it was he wanted to hear most, in each of those moments. It was the same now as he frowned down over the balcony’s rail, fingers slowly twisting the stem of the wine chalice in-need of the constancy of movement. Each word stuck within the recesses of his mind, sinking in alongside the anger, which only served to cover the emotional neediness of his wounded pride. After a moment’s pause, he turned quickly toward the other, eyes bright with a changed expression as if wishing to ask ‘do you really think so?’ but never speaking such things. He stood an open book, each scar inflicted as brightly apparent as the complete strength of his person – sometimes buried far deeper than any other would ever imagine.

The careful touch of fingers within the wild curls of his hair stilled him completely, stealing the readied words from his slightly parted lips before they could be a whisper between them. How long had it been…? Months; as long as they had been in exile, Alexandros had equally exiled Hephaestion from the intimacy they had discovered in one another some time before. It was not that he did not crave the warmth and comfort of the other man’s touch; in truth, it was far more trying to turn him away when every fiber of his being wanted that love and affection, that bolstering of his ego and closeness with the one he loved most of all. But he warred intensely with the notion that having been exiled, he must now be ‘more’ – more worthy, more righteous, more respectable than ever before so all others would visibly see the vast differences between father and son. They would see him as the golden one. The mere mentality that such things as sleep, drink, and sex were the elements of himself that he could always control only urged Alexandros further toward solitude each night spent in Illyria – but this was no such land, now. The visions of times since passed flickered heatedly within his mind just then, though the drop of Hephaestion’s fingers from their gentle caress bolstered him. Alexandros drew in a slow breath through barely parted lips as he pinned his gaze against the ethereal blue eyes of the other man, and the tension of his jawline flickered for a brief second as he seemed almost to deliberate, before reaching up in a similar yet very distinctive touch he had always lingered upon this man’s skin alone. The grace of his weapons-calloused palm, the softness of his fingertips, traced fleetingly back across the skin of Hephaestion’s high cheekbone, relishing in quiet pride the flush that often accompanied such a thing, before wrapping his fingers gently into the longer, darker length of the other man’s hair, tracing it downward until there was no choice but to let go once more.

He could hear, even before the words were spoken, Hephaestion’s timely response. There was some comfort in that, even, knowing what was to come. In turn though, tonight, it was met with a scoffed breath in retort. Alexandros had remained with vibrant, intent green eyes upon the other man even as his companion had turned to mimic his prior position, looking out over the city from the palace height. Now, he shook his head and bit down roughly, accentuating the overtly-masculine line of his jaw once more as a darkness seemed to settle once more across features that perpetually shifted from too young, to too old against his true age.

While Hephaestion did not hesitate in the words he needed spoken to him most, Alexandros never hesitated with the decisions made and the actions put into place. With a decisive turn away from the balcony and no invitation to follow, he turned away and stalked back into the expansive suite like a feral predator bound and aggravated by all the elements around him. There was no grace in the way he jabbed the chalice into the top of the table, leaving his hands free to turn and spread the map out before him. He pointed roughly then, his voice beginning to raise as he jammed a finger against Persia, tracing an outline he’d done over and over and over. But his eyes were not upon the intricate lines and geographies he dictated with a pointed finger, but upon the man he addressed with force not specifically directed at him. **_”And mighty Achilles? Did he wait, satisfied to linger in the shadows, content with being made a fool of, insulted, dishonored?”_** Again, Alexandros’ lips almost curled before being set firmly in expression with the frown between the severity of those green eyes.

 ** _”The count of his insults upon my mother… upon me… is unforgiveable. There has been no apology for the comments made, and further now, my companions dismissed as if they meant nothing…”_** With the steady movement, as was Alexandros’ way, he carried himself once more closer toward his companion, stopping feet from him again then. And there was that moment, that tiny, delicate moment where the rage of his anger blurred and shifted into the softness of Alexandros’ want for reassurance and affection, evident only within the profound depth of his gaze, and the subtle change in the note of his voice. **_”What would you have me do, Phae? Shove all from my mind and present myself the golden child my father has always desired?”_** Yet even still, there was a distinct bitterness behind those words, as if the taste was acid upon his tongue and he could stomach no such extensive pleasantries.


End file.
